Holding Out For a Broadcast Network Hero
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: Castiel Novak is an ordinary kid whose heart swells for graphic novel superheroes. Dean Winchester is an up-and-coming TV star harboring chronic depression. America's Finest City brings them together. Rated M for language, underage romance, and adult themes/content. UPDATES WEEKLY.
1. Hellblazing

_A/N: This takes place over the course of the four-day period that SDCC (or CCI) typically runs. Also, consider it a couple years into the future._

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><p><span>Chapter 1: Hellblazing<span>

With Comic Con around the corner, Christmas came twice a year for Castiel Novak. The loud costumes, the lack of personal space, merchandise and celebrities alike that cost more than his college tuition for an annual appearance—those were just a few of a million things the sixteen-year-old found miraculous about the whole event. One would assume after spending a quarter of his existence bathing in the noxious fumes of San Diego that he would ultimately tire from the big scene, but no matter rain or shine, Cas was always loyal to the establishment that built him. He always brought with him a smile bright enough to outshine a thousand lighthouses, and that's more than anyone could say about a semester at Harvard or Yale.

Gabe was just an outsider looking in. Everything he saw around him was his brother's fantasy (save for the Xena Warrior Princesses, Princess Leias, and just about every other type of Princess there was). Cas usually brought an escort to his prom—although she would be resolute on the term "date" when Harley Quinn and Joker roleplaying was involved—but this year Charlie had a girlfriend to explore with, leaving him under Gabriel's supervision. (And yes, the kid needed an extra set of eyes when he was within a hundred feet of a comic book stand or an obviously well-toned costumer wearing his tighty whiteys inside out—the real challenge was both.)

Being a convention veteran, his baby brother went all-out to devise the perfect get-up. Since it was his first year flying solo, he construed an idea of a hero from one of his favorite comics. Decked in a beige trenchcoat and a three-piece suit, Cas was probably the most normal (which was actually considered strange for the time and place) looking person at the convention for once. He even dyed his hair soulless to match Carrot Top (fortunately minus the mid-length curls) and had saved big bucks from his part-time job at the Gas n' Sip for a Holy Shotgun prototype and brass knuckles complete with black Latin crosses on each band that even Gabe had to admit was pretty cool.

When he pulled out a cigarette (for the sake of the character, of course; if Gabe ever caught his kid brother with a _real_ cigarette…) was when he received the most recognition. The little dude managed to get a dozen hastily scribbled phone numbers tucked into his king-size fleece. Unfortunately for him all of the girls were well into their twenty-somethings, and where Gabe was the proud older brother in the equation, he was also the responsible adult. Really, he didn't want these girls taking advantage of Cas. He would have to systematically eliminate each one not well-intentioned (_especially _those not well-intentioned) through a commendable dinner date. After all, Gabe was only doing him a favor. Precautions, precaut—

And now he was challenging a girl in a Madame Xanadu cosplay to an open cockfight. Yeah, Gabe was definitely going to have to teach the kid a thing or two about how to talk to women—

And she was talking to him, like full-on_ hands all over_ talking to him.

On second thought, this whole Comic Con scene wasn't so bad.

~O~

"You're shitting me."

Meg Masters—better known by her alias Madame Xanadu—shook her head, careful not to drop the cigarette lent by a one arch nemesis that she cautiously cradled between her lips. She was a few years Constantine's senior and very pretty, if he had a say. She had a primitive face that needed only the red pendent she wore has a diadem around her forehead, long black hair parted charitably over her shoulders, and a purple keyhole dress that gave nice distinction to her fair skin.

It wasn't long before she was speaking again, "I swear, Clarence. Eclipso is around here somewhere. I say we team up, exorcise that bitch once and for all…"

"Tempting offer, but I'll have to pass. I don't work with me enemies." Cas tossed her a wink.

Madame Xanadu lifted a single tarot card from her collection. "Ay, you'll live to regret that, John. The Devil's on your trail, and he's coming to collect his prize."

"Tell the old bloke he's gonna have to wait in line," Constantine countered, gravel thick in his tone.

The two teens broke into full-bodied laughter, gripping each other's costumes for support. Just as Cas was about to ask if his Majesty would like to accompany him to his basecamp at Hall H, he was struck hard in the shoulder. For his pint-sized body mass, Cas went tumbling into other roleplayers. He quickly mumbled his apologies before turning to the person liable for the half-assed "accident". The nerve—the guy kept walking and talking to someone next to him like nothing happened.

"What the_ fuck_?" Cas spat, loud enough for everyone around him to marvel and grow quiet.

This diverted the figure's warped attention. The guy craned his head, turned around, and moseyed over to Cas. He got close enough that not even a ray of sunlight from the outside world could crash between their skeletons. Emerald eyes met sapphire and for a long while that was the heart of their communication. Green Eyes was ballsy, but he wasn't wired on twenty-four hours' worth of sleep deprivation from caffeine shots.

"Do you know who I am, kid?" His voice sounded like puberty giving him the bird. He wasn't even wearing a costume, just a tacky indigo flannel with jeans and combats.

_Oh, this was going to be so much fun. _"Hmm, the smarmy asshole that bumped into me."

Green Eyes wasn't amused. He snapped his head to the same guy he was talking to moments earlier. There was no stark contrast between the two other than hazel eyes, longer hair, and he was stifling a puny laugh for his lofty height. Green Eyes turned back, narrowing his subject with piqued interest. "And who are you supposed to be, a hobo with big cajones?"

"John Constantine," he said without a heartbeat's hesitation. "And at least mine are big." Before Green Eyes could retaliate, a familiar voice chimed into the conversation, asking if there was a problem. Cas watched his brother's keen eye on the flannel-fetished freaks of nature. "No, Gabe, everything's—what the hell are you wearing?"

Green Eyes and his entourage had disappeared into the thick of the crowd by the time he came around to an answer (_"Loki's helmet, baby bro," he said, knocking the paper mache headdress. "You won't believe the chick magnet on this thing."_)_. _There was idle chitchat amongst the multitude, but most of it was subdued. They were motionless, spellbound; apparently never seen a size fight between two guys.

"Clarence, that was _so _cool," Meg uttered, pushing him affectionately.

Cas snorted, saying, "I only did what anyone would do."

"But he's not just anybody," she said, pivoting him in the direction of the stage. Sure enough, Green Eyes was floodlit by the jumbo screen and surrounded by a separate entourage of screaming girls and flashing photographers. He wore a charismatic smile—the kind that got recycled and reused more than the local landfill. "That's Dean Winchester, _the_ Dean Winchester."

Gabe shrugged next to them. "Okay, so he gets a prefix before his name. So does Dwayne Johnson; doesn't make him a great wrestler."

"Dean is the youngest guy to land a contract with the _CW_," she continued like Gabe was nothing more than an annoying poltergeist, "next to his brother, Sam. They're the hottest brothers on cable television since _The Vampire Diaries_ finale."

Cas studied the actor's face on the screen. He showed more hesitation than his off-screen brother during the Q&A. He couldn't be certain from his vantage point, but he looked wretched behind his hard, handsome guise. "He looks sad," he pondered aloud.

"Is that a hint of forgiveness I detect?" Meg said, nudging her newfangled friend beguilingly. Gabe had even crossed his arms and faced his brother, intrigued by the same question.

Cas schooled his face into a hard glower. "What? No, no way. Gabe, what time is it? I don't see Matt Ryan escorting us to Hall H anytime soon."

"You make it sound like he knows you personally," the eldest scoffed. "That'd be ridiculous."

The boy cast one last glance at the monitor. _Yeah, totally ridiculous…_


	2. The Appeal

Chapter 2: The Appeal

Subtle, he promised. Just one all-expense paid jaunt to sunnyside San Diego and back to ass-sicling in Vancouver. Not like he had a choice in the matter. Dean was only a season into _Ghostfacers; _his character was easily replaceable. Spengler and Zeddmore were the real stars; he was just "the appeal", as Michael had so generously put it. Still, there were sacrifices he had to make in order to get a generous check—one of them including a campaign run at SDCC. So as long as he was getting compensation for sitting, breathing, and occasional fan interaction, he would slap on a smile and ride the carnival until closing hours.

Subtlety in show business was a joke. Asking for confidentiality in a dog-eat-dog industry was about as easy as pulling down the lever of a jackpot machine and lighting up the VDT with bright red sevens. None of it was subtle. The lights, the cameras—the only thing missing from the setup was a director to call action. The hotel did no justice either. He repressed the overwhelming urge to scream the minute his luggage hit the reused linoleum floor, dragging languidly across the dimly lit foyer. Even the sheets in his lodging were explicitly loud—red satin embellished with gold embroidery around the flattened-out ends.

And what would you know; underneath the pillow was a note, the ink still warm on the page:

_Mr. and Mr. Winchester,_

_It is an honor to have you with us. Please accept the truffles on your nightstand as a token of our gratitude. _

—_The Lobby_

"They address us like we're joined at the hip," he groused, crumbling the letter.

Propped on his respective bed with a laptop resting contently on his thighs was none other than Sam Winchester. He wore a smile that reminded him of their mother's—placating, always patient. He adopted her fair-skinned face and shallow dimples that came out on rare occasions like this, when the hustle-bustle of big cities and little women weren't thwarting their impending happiness. Sam didn't mind the extras that came with fame, though; he was always better at handling things.

"We're not too far from it." Dean glared at him. Sam threw up his defenses: "What? At the rate we're going, I'm pretty sure our picture's under Webster's definition of conjoined twins."

He thought that term over with what little education he had acquired from a three-year-old GED. "Isn't it Siamese twins?"

"Hmm, I'm ninety-nine percent positive it's conjoined."

Typing arose from his keyboard, but the sound was silenced by Dean's six-foot stature hitting his memory-foam. One would think a thousand dollar deposit would cover all the clicks and rattling that absconded from the noisy mattress, but that's what happened when fame prioritized your life. Sales and flattery always came before liberty and comfort. "Whatever, I'm too tired to argue," he grumbled, rolling onto his back to face the ceiling. "Who agreed to put us on a four-day panel?"

"Don't get too excited, you'll bust a nut."

Dean sighed, already exhausted. "I'm serious. I mean, we're not even confirmed regulars and we get shipped around more than FedEx. I don't see Spengler or Zeddmore busting their chops to get the full Comic Con experience."

"And you aren't?" Sam rejoined. He didn't sound at all sarcastic, just curious. "Says here that '_Dean Winchester, Star of Ghostfacers, Gets Personal with Mystery Fan_'."

That comment had Dean scrambling to the neighboring bed, scratching and clawing the computer out of his brother's hands. He gaped at the screen over and over until he made some coherent sense of the poorly-reported sensationalistic crap staring back at him. He read the piece aloud, dissecting every last word with his tongue:

"_'__Double, double toil and trouble, opening day at SDCC boils down to mayhem in a caldron bubble for Dean Winchester, star of the hit-series Ghostfacers. When approached by a fan before his panel, the twenty-year-old retaliated with a challenge to a one-on-one fist fight, which was adjourned by an anonymous man in a poorly constructed paper hat (pictured above). Winchester fled the scene with his costar before there was any bloodshed and the inevitable crushing of fanboy dreams._"

Sam narrowed his head and made way for a crooked grin. "I look pretty good in that shot." Dean growled.

"This is bullshit!" he exclaimed lividly. "That little punk came at _me_! And he sure wasn't any fan of mine…" _but he_ was_ gutsy, you know, for a kid his size… nope, no, back it up, Winchester. Put it in reverse and blow off the rails on this crazy train—_

"True, but he did have some pretty wicked comebacks. What was that crack about him having bigger balls than you? You should've seen your face—"

"Not helping, Sam," he said, deliberately overturning his laptop. He didn't need the thing anyway, not when the article was photocopied in his mind. This was_ not_ good. Michael warned him about this going into the business. Bad press wasn't good press, despite the cliché. No matter how much you sugarcoat or wrap a blanket around it, bad exposure was like living with terminal cancer—you can treat the issue with every last fiber in your body, but it'll still come back to bite you in the ass.

Before he could properly freak, the bathroom door swung open. Behind it was a man wearing a light blouse underneath loose suspenders and a black overcoat. He was busy shrugging on the latter when he spoke, southern drawl laced with his rough tone, "Maybe I can be of assistance."

Dean forged a small smile. "Oh babe, you've assisted me in ways I didn't even know were possible."

"Up for round two?" he asked, tossing him a wink while he messed with the hem of his left sleeve.

Sam coughed in attempt to jostle the giant elephant from the room, "Hey, Benny."

"Maybe later," replied the eldest half-heartedly. With that, Benny cast a glance between the two of them and left with the same buoyant smile he came in with (Sam didn't need to know that part, though…).

The second-born raised his virgin eyes before blinking away unnecessary images settling there. "Well, you and Benny seem... okay. You know, considering—"

"We were at each other's throats? Yeah, that much hasn't changed. You should've seen the way he—"

Sam raced to build a blockade between his ears and Dean's words with his pillow. "Alright, alright, you win. Just spare me the 'where he put what' details before this place reeks of last night's dinner."

"Oh yeah, speaking of which, I take it you're the petty thief hoarding all the truffles." Sam responded by carefully heaving his PC onto his lap, clicking and typing away like a mad scientist. "I thought so."

~O~

Later that night, while his brother was far surpassing the forty winks rule of thumb, Dean stood in front of the bathroom mirror. There wasn't much emulation considering he was just as bad if not worse than the equivocator staring back at him. In one hand he possessed two pink pills and a single blue one in the other. He would laugh had he the vitality. He was seven, sitting on an exam table and one big pickle. _They can't be pink_, he claimed, _pink is for girls, everyone'll think I'm a girl! _To think that that was once his biggest cleft stick. Every life decision he made since has rested precariously on the tip of a double-edged sword. Take the antidepressants, don't take the antidepressants. Sign your name and soul to the Wizard or wind up povertized just south of Emerald City.

He turned up to meet his dull reflection again and saw his adolescence screaming at him, begging to spare him from consciousness. It was a one-way road from here, and for years, the decision was never easy to make. Today he skipped the internal lecture and downed the pink tablets. Sleep would take him prisoner eventually. Whether or not it was tonight or a month from tonight was in the inept hands of fate. His job was to get through the rest of the week without tearing out his hair.


	3. Dodging the Arrow

Chapter 3: Dodging the Arrow

"I'm sorry, you want me to _what_?"

Believing his ears had deceived him, Castiel reiterated the question like he was going deaf. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if his face split into diamond shards; it would make more sense than the question pending for his approval.

The teen was on his way to owning every _Green Arrow_ collectable known to nerd (unfortunately, he still didn't have Stephen Amell) when someone came from behind him, asking what the big hype about Marvel was. It was a legitimate question, one he still didn't possess the answer to after the third instillation of the _Fantastic Four_ series, so he replied honestly. Then the guy started rambling about Thor, Captain America and even Hawkeye, saying that those were "concepts" he could definitely get behind.

The loudmouth was at Comic Con and didn't even know Marvel from DC—that was like not being able to explain a proctologist from a gynecologist. This only further excavated the one veracity he held to since he was five: it was hard living in a Marvel world.

Dean masticated his lower lip. He clearly wasn't acquainted with human interaction. Lucky for him, he had ascertained that fact yesterday. "A date with me," he said as if talking to a child, "tonight?"

"Am I missing something? Wait, I get it, there's a hidden camera behind me and you're waiting to yell _Punk'd_." He gestured the element of surprise with his hands outspread before puffing a quiet laugh. "Clever, but unless Ashton's in a stakeout van and _he's _waiting to ask me out, I think I'll pass. So if you'll excuse me…"

Cas stepped around him and earned Dean's hand on his wrist. Not even the thick green pleather he wore could protect him from the newfangled warmth penetrating through his skin. When he snapped his head to look at the person dissuading his escape, Cas found an undistinguishable urgency there.

"You can look around you all you want, be my guest. You won't find anything incriminating." His fingers traveled south until they were touching his by a hair's breadth. The action was enough to send a distress signal to his nether regions. "So I'll ask again, will you go on a date with me?"

Despite his better judgment, Cas probed, "Why?"

"You're plucky. And really hot… that costume is doing you some major favors…"

_You will not turn pink on account of a petty comment from an even pettier guy. _"But I hate you."

"I hate you too," he cooed. "Look at that, we already found something in common."

Cas took a step back, suddenly conscious of their proximity. He was surprised his quiver hadn't buckled under the pressure of the table he backed into. He'd be sure to send a satisfaction e-mail to the vender _after_ he stirred from this harrowing nightmare and changed his underclothes. "But it's illegal," he sputtered unintelligibly.

"So's piracy, but it doesn't stop anyone from committing bigger felonies." Dean raised his arms above his chest, gesticulating to his entirety. "Besides, I'm famous."

The teen sighed, mostly to relieve the inconceivable compression forming in the front of his tights. "You're not actually—" _gonna use that line. _Just as Dean was about to instead say _why yes, _he was famous, _how did you know? _Cas agreed to one night of public mortification on one condition: the actor spared him from the current plight he was in. He won this round, but that didn't mean Cas wouldn't exact his revenge. He would make sure Dean Winchester added the Green Arrow to his to-do list before the end of the night.

~O~

The moon was parked analogous with the distant mountains by the time the eldest retreated to the quiet chamber that served as the brothers' backstage. Nighttime fell faster over large cityscapes despite the warmer climate, which had some truth behind it. Larger buildings surrounding the establishment bequeathed the sun the privilege to play a lonesome game of hide and seek, making for rather beautiful sunsets. _Lonesome, _Dean mused as he drummed on his dead microphone. That was a word he could get reestablished with right about now.

The last panel left everyone's crosshairs a tad more frayed than usual. With Zeddmore and Spengler's last minute cancellations along with Spruce, Corbett, and the rest of the cavalry, the Winchesters were left to guard the frontlines alone. Sam had to leave the stage an hour earlier than his brother due to a minor technicality (_No, Sam_, a sprained wrist does _not_ classify as a sustained injury, just a hell of a grievance for everyone else, and certainly _won't_ be covered under workman's compensation), therefore leaving Dean to run the three-ringed circus. (If that didn't land him an opening spot on _Naked & Afraid, _he lost all hope in his career.) When he went to talk to Michael on a break he theoretically wasn't admitted to, the manager just shrugged his shoulders and said it was better he was under the spotlight clearing his name after the little "publicity stunt" he pulled the day before.

Because really, Dean just _loves_ drawing attention to his reoccurring guest star fame.

The youngest apparently had the same inclination. He was currently catering to the party in his mouth while his fingers made sweet clicks with his keyboard. His wrist wasn't even wrapped.

"Oh, there you are, I was a click away from sending out an amber alert for a missing brother." Sam didn't move. How dare he not take fervor in his habitual conundrums; Dean was highly tempted to shove him off the horse he was sitting so precariously high and mighty on. "Hey," he barked, snapping his fingers a little too close to his face, "don't I get a proper hello?"

That wasn't enough to stir Sam from his enchantment, but he did reply, "Tell them we found a missing child."

"Better," he said, shrugging out of his sweat-stained, double-layered fleece and undershirt. San Diego—unlike his native (second to Lawrence) home where he didn't have many options other than bundling up or catching ammonia—was steadfast in the weather department, never swaying above or below lukewarm seventy. Inside nerd headquarters, however, was a different story. Between the barely-there AC, the significant weight of questions, and not to mention the overall density, Comic Con was one big human-sauna cesspool. "I don't see you complaining about your hand, so what's got your thong in a twist, Thelma?"

Sam stared above him to the open skylight where moonlight was flooding into the otherwise vacant quarters. Finally, after faint hesitation, he closed his PC, uncertainty thick in his tone. "Dad called."

Dean continued to divest his body of clothes despite the new pain in his ass. "What did he want?"

Sam shrugged, trying to discount the acidic tension lingering in the air. Dean caught this and something in the way his brother shifted in his seat that told him he wasn't going to like the riposte. He knew when his brother was telling the truth and when he was trying to protect him. "I don't know, I didn't answer."

"Got caught skimming from the commissary again, probably," he grumbled, carding a hand through his mocha hair. A shower would have probably been in his best interest had his blood stopped from running cold. He was midway through sliding the head of his zipper down the teeth when he unconsciously added, "Guy goes through money faster than you go through clothes."

Sam heaved a sigh, "Dean—"

"Don't." Dean said sternly, jaw tightening. He closed his eyes and did the same. "Just don't." The eldest disrobed entirely, save for his boxers. Usually, Sam would fill his annoying sibling quota by filing a complaint for "indecency" in the first degree, but at that given moment, he was less than content trading his opinions for silent oppression. "By the way, keep it up and you'll have carpal tunnel by college."

Sam stared at the carpet, mumbling, "You mean tunnel vision?"

"Hmm, I'm _ninety-nine percent positive_ it's carpal tunnel." The youngest sat contemplating the term, unwittingly bringing his finger to his lip. Dean wore a devious smile. Sam's eyes went wide and just as he was seeking a loophole to validate his previous claim, he had a face full of jeans and an earful of bathroom door slamming shut. (Yeah, that's right; Dean did his research… when Uncle Bobby's little condition got the best of him.)

~O~

"Get the fuck out of here."

Cas delved into his angel hair soup, or the _Creamy_ _Italian Bouillon_ as the menu so righteously put it, after successfully evading an embarrassing snicker. "I swear on my grave, straight A's since kindergarten."

The place Dean handpicked was a quiet, antiquated hole in the wall bistro a couple blocks south of the big city. Better him than the junior picking out the joint, who, despite his recurrent visits to the mouth of California, didn't know a gas station from a local hospital. (Luckily, his transportation was his feet or he'd be totally screwed if he got mauled by a bear or someone equivalent in size.)

Though Cas wouldn't admit, he felt tempted to reach over and link his hand with Dean's on the manual transmission of his Chevy Impala (and he certainly wouldn't admit that he hadn't done so partly because he was intimidated by the size of his engine—ego, _ego)._ He had to remember this was the same guy that thought he was living on Revlon and food stamps and then proceeded to _insult _him… and doesn't appreciate classic comics… or anything, really, for that matter.

Then Dean opened the door for him on the way in and _no_, Cas wasn't smitten_._ Just because no one's ever performed the gesture for him doesn't mean he owes the guy his heart. It was a courteous exploit that everyone should be inclined to do, regardless if they were on a date or not. And as for Ellen's, who he presumed was the owner of the diner, underhand comment to the eldest boy about his new 'friend' _("Honey, if you wore those heart_ _eyes any bigger I'd have to kick you out for public indecency.")_, she was just going to have to face the reality that her second son was just that phenomenal of an actor.

But as the pendulum swung and Cas was sitting across from James Dean, he found that he wouldn't mind so much if he was. Whenever Cas talks, Dean listens. Whenever he's musing over a fond memory, he chews his lip and smiles, like they're in a mind meld and he's evoking the same memory. Whenever he stifles a laugh, he looks like he's about to burst at the seams if he doesn't finish for him. No one's ever taken an immediate interest in him romantically, and it actually felt kind of good. (And, let's face it, Dean is massively attractive with his masculine face is all scrunched up, trying to circumvent the fact that he's being defeated by a sixteen-year-old in a stonewashed, three-piece prom suit.)

"Okay, I'll give you kindergarten," he digressed, "that's a cakewalk."

Cas hid his face in his porcelain bowl. "And preschool…"

"My God," he gasped, "you really _are_ a nerd." Cas threw his napkin at him. He probably should have been acting more civil, especially on a first date in an unknown restaurant, but he figured he was doing Ellen a favor. Dean recoiled and set the fabric aside. "No, seriously, I think it's cool you're really… invested in school."

Now it was Cas's turn to gasp. "Big word for a high school dropout," he teased, restoring relations between his mouth and his spoon once more. "You sound like you're speaking for someone else."

"My brother," he replied through a mouth packed at the sides with red meat, green eyes shining, "hmm, you saw him behind me a couple days ago, can't keep his mouth shut." _Like someone I know, _Cas almost added as a side note. "He finished early so he could start looking into colleges. He digs the whole Hollywood scene more than most of us, but he's still set on Stanford Law. He got offered a full ride a couple weeks ago."

Cas nearly choked on his pasta. "That's _awesome_. I guess good looks and brains run in the Winchester bloodline."

"Nah, I wouldn't say I'm smart, not like Sammy." The fondness in the petname made his lips turn up.

"Hey, give yourself some credit. You may not be the nicest, sweetest, most selfless or romantic person—"

"Are you getting to a point or filling out a dossier?"

"—but you do know your way around a decent insult," he finished firmly, stealing one of his fries, "which is pretty hot." Dean turned slightly pink, which in turn made the teen smile. If he didn't know better he thought he'd never been complimented, or taken a compliment, at least. Because how could a guy rich in both his (God-awful flannel) pockets and his looks have not been praised before? Now, flattered, that was a different story. He looked like a kid who got caught with his pants down on the playground. "Can I ask you something…why me?"

Dean eyed him curiously, replying, "Why not?"

"Well, I mean, you have the world in the palm of your hand," he clarified, "and yet here you are, on a date with the same reckless kid that almost sullied your reputation. And don't say it's because of those tights because plenty of guys wear tights."

The other man laughed, "Oh really? Please, enlighten me."

"Christopher Reeve, Jared Leto…every football or basketball player ever…"

"Are you seriously suggesting guys who play with rubber balls are real men?"

"Alright, alright, don't get your pantyhose in a wad," Cas conceded, blushing profusely at the distinct comment. "You still haven't answered my question. You're famous. You have the best job in the world and get paid big bacon to be worshipped by millions of people. The way I see it, you have everything."

The actor's face turned sour, undistinguishable. He skirted around eye contact and stared out the window to a moderately busy thoroughfare. Cas was expecting something more along the lines of _maybe I like reckless _or _you're not the first, _but instead received an answer far exceeding the boundaries of liberal conversation they've had so far, "Guess it seems that way when you're an orphan." He took a pause, letting that sink in. "My mom passed a few months after Sam was born and my dad's in a penitentiary for killing the guy responsible."

Cas jumped at the clatter the silverware he made against his bowl. He never felt his heart swell three times normal size before—wasn't pleasant, not recommended. This was his fault. He knew he shouldn't have asked. If he hadn't have brought the question up, Dean wouldn't have had to rehash the past and it would have spared him the heartache for another night. Cas didn't know what it was like to lose someone, but he did know how it felt being alone, running scared. No wonder he naturally came off as an asshole—it was easier than facing the truth.

"Anything else for you, sweetheart?" chimed an older woman from what felt like a distance. Ellen eyeballed his bowl, where only a measly noodle string remained floating in an endless sea of tomato broth. Before Cas could rejoin properly, Dean reached for his wallet, slid out a crisp twenty, and filed out of the booth. A few pending patrons gaped at the star hurdling toward the exit; some even snapped pictures until he was completely out of sight.

Cas smiled kindly at the owner and thanked her for her service before scurrying out the door just as fast.

~O~

Leaning against the side of the establishment with a cigarette flaccid from his mouth was Dean Winchester, reviving the memories of nights like these. Before Uncle Bobby, there was the orphanage—a grimy little institute submerged in rows of interminable crop fields and corroding from the inside out. It felt like a prison most of the time, save for when he saw his brother. Sam was put into a different unit because, according to some provisional psychiatrist, their relationship was a little too "codependent."

Meanwhile, Sam came running to Dean in the middle of the night with contusions on his face the size of golf balls. Codependency may have been a bitch of a disease, but it was the only thing two penniless and parentless brothers had ever known, next to each other.

He'd like to think Sam was born the fortunate son, as John Fogerty had put it in his father's generation. Yeah, he still had to deal with excessive traveling and a work schedule that would be considered immoral for a sixteen-year-old in the real world, but he was spared from being medicated and labeled in society as another hopeless case. Sam turned out better. He found compassion in those who far from deserved it and saw a light at the end of the ugly-ass tunnel. Dean knew it was because he was stronger, but he liked to think he had some role in shaping him into the man he wanted to be for both of them.

"Am I interrupting something?" stirred a certain young boy, stepping a little too into his personal boundaries. The only light illuminating him now was from a streetlamp a few feet away—that was his spotlight.

Instead of a proper riposte, Dean exhaled composted nicotine into the dank atmosphere. He was about to mumble something about the bipolar weather when suddenly, the air around him felt asphyxiating. It surmounted every muscle in his body and, for the first time in a while, he was completely inebriated. Taking a painstaking glance below him, he rested his eyes on a familiar sight pressing against him and sliding a hand into the front of his jeans.

He stilled it where it was, using Dean's breathy submission as license to pursue his course of action. The actor rammed his head into the brick slab behind him; his fingers were pushing and pulling in a way that should have been criminal. Because of the passing cars and the occasional passersby, he had to do without giving into the licentious moans obstructing his vocal chords. He waited with gated breath as Castiel's lips nimbly ghosted over the bare skin of his neck…

Then their foreheads were clashing together and neither of them abstained from capturing the other's lips. Dean had to refrain from laughing in his already restricted responses; he tasted impeccably of tomatoes and spicy sausage. The younger boy succumbed to him like a cat when Dean's own fingers found his posterior. Chafing him just underneath his crotch with his knee, Dean found that, between his mouth and his unwavering hand, Cas was moving in perfect synchronization. Dean tore at his lips until there was a small ruddy abrasion bubbling on the surface—

Their decadence was cut short by a plethora of arresting lights. Cas was the first to turn around. Then, before either of them had time to think, he sprinted in the opposite direction, leaving Dean idling on the curb with a raging hard-on and a dozen meddlesome photographers.


	4. Expectations Hung

Chapter 4: Expectations Hung

The Novak brother's lodging was a bungalow located in the heart of the wild (that's right, it's a _cabin in the woods_, go ahead, sue him. He only understood that reference because there was no way he was missing shirtless Thor no matter how stalwartly he stood by DC). Gabe stumbled upon the abandoned house during a _very _intoxicated night during senior break and called it his own. Cas thought the world of the place. No OCD parents or an insane asylum renamed school a couple blocks away—it was truly a home away from home.

The comic enthusiast hails from Pontiac, Illinois, a small town three hours west of Indiana. Pontiac was a tourist hotspot for the recurrences of Abe Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant, who parenthetically both had fascinations with studious young men and unforgiving winters. Those attractions brought in nice dividends, couple thousand annually at the most. Comic Con, try a couple _million _on a bad year_._ To illustrate, the people of quaint little Pontiac don't extend beyond what was fifteen times the population at SDCC. And don't even try comparing both numbers to the entirety of San Diego; Cas had to digest his breakfast first.

It wasn't like he had an easy time before flying down to sunnyside California. _A day in the life of a high school kid isn't easy,_ his stepfather Zachariah claimed, starting into his premature old man tone that said there was a moral story around the bend. The guy was a religious kook, so he was bound to have a few unsolicited opinions about the education system, but he wasn't wrong. School was hard enough being the only openly bisexual kid in his graduating class. Add the biggest nerd and he was a walking poster boy for humiliation and torment.

The only real friends he had were the ones he made in southwest California—the ones that looked beyond his scrawny ass and "obviously confused" sexuality that saw him for who he was. Charlie was two grades ahead of him, leaving him behind long ago. Hannah was nice enough, but for reasons unbeknownst to him, always tried to get him alone, which was kind of scary. Garth and Kevin were always courteous, but they were more invested in each other than an upperclassman. That was fine, too. They were best friends long before a measly Novak came along.

Really, the only person he had that wasn't off at some illustrious university or a thousand miles away was Gabriel (mostly because the elder brother didn't believe in furthering his education when he found steady work at a candy mill in Naperville despite the hour-long sermon from their stringent parents). His other brothers and sisters were at Princeton… or was it Columbia? Hell, he couldn't keep track anymore.

Come to think of it, he doesn't know what he's going to do with the rest of his life. So many options, so little options, either way he had a gut feeling that he wouldn't fall through with the right decision. College seemed out of the question, since he probably blew a hole through every penny in his education fund on conventions and memorabilia. If it wasn't for Gabe's recent promotion he wouldn't have been able to afford airfare to San Diego alone. Their parents resented the idea of a "second Halloween" for a learning boy, so he didn't expect a check-in call from them anytime soon. He wouldn't live to see tomorrow if his parents knew he wasn't on paid training for some pre-medical internship in San Francisco.

He felt bad, using his brother for money he didn't have to begin with, but Gabe insisted on paying. He was one of the few adults who understood how hard it was to be a kid in the twenty-first century.

But even what he currently held in his hands couldn't top Gabe this time. It was an envelope (yeah, can you believe there's actually postal service in bumfuck nowhere?) enclosed to a _C. Novak_. Beneath the surface was something substantial, judging by the weight. Sure enough, inside were two official backstage passes to the final day at CCI. There was a note further back that read:

_Hopefully this lives up to your expectations._

Cas didn't remember San Diego being this humid because that's totally why his damn allergies were acting up. He slapped his cheeks a few times to relieve the scarlet burn materializing there (because _really, _this all just had to do with global warming). He stared at the laminates for another moment before shoving them into his pajamas and receding back into the wooden chalet. He wasn't one for cold showers, but nothing in the world at that given moment sounded more propitiatory.

~O~

Gabriel Novak wasn't a genius. He wasn't a mathematician like Einstein or a scientist like…—shit, he slept through all his high school science classes. Well, there had to have been someone who made some significant contribution to the universe and he wasn't one of those guys. Point blank: he didn't know much about a lot of things, no matter how hard he tried to act like he did. Candy, overbearing parents, dating, little brothers—those happened to be some of the few exemptions from his long list of _I'd rather not's._ So when he found out that his little brother was on a date with a guy who didn't appreciate him for being a real genius _and _nearly cost he and Cas a parent-ensued house arrest… well, let's just say it didn't take more than half a brain to get extremely pissed.

"Are you insane?!"

Cas sat on what was once presumably a gonorrhea-infested couch before their renovations. He had his arms crossed, tucked between his abdomen and elevated thighs. "Do you need an immediate answer?"

"I mean you're seriously not considering—" Gabe stopped, watching his little sibling's face rise and fall with the changing tide. He put emphasis on the dis-proportioned drawstring of his pajama pants. "You are."

Cas caught a glimpse at the envelope in his waistband and grimaced. "I don't like what happened as much as the next guy, but it's a once in a lifetime thing…"

"So is having Obi-Wan Kenobi for an older brother." Gabe bent down to meet Cas's delirious eyes. He couldn't believe it was seven in the damn morning. Next time he decided to lay down the law, he doing it on a full stomach. "And believe me when I say Luke, you're in way over your head here."

The younger Novak mirrored his exasperation, "Gabe…"

"Don't _Gabe _me, Castiel," he warned, standing up. "You were my responsibility this weekend."

Cas scoffed, staring at the rundown carpet. "You sound like mom."

"Well at least I know why she sounds like mom," he replied tersely amid the silence that hung between them.

After a moment that felt like time milked into molasses, Gabe bent down again and pulled his brother into a hug that lasted a little too long. He felt Cas's eyes close like he was crying, but…nope, just sleeping. He should have suspected—the kid was a notorious night owl. Prudently, he removed the envelope out of his slackened grasp and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. His baby brother may have been a child prodigy, but there was no way he trusted him with the one slip of paper that would shortly change the rest of his nerdish life.

~O~

"Have you ever seen so many dicks in one place?"

Cas chuckled, fleetingly catching the gentleman's eye with his snide remark. His ingress into high society was led by someone not much older than his impending seventeen (and not at all bad looking, if he said so). He wasn't wrong about his previous claim; there _were _dozens of hot male personalities teeming in one narrow passageway—he just failed to see the problem. "You make it sound like hell."

"Dude, I PA," he countered. That expunged all preceding postulations he made about… _Cole_? Cole. When the guy said dick, he meant 'my career choice was _dick _move'_._

Typically right about now he would be in Denver, downing lukewarm Styrofoam cocoa from a cheap vendor inside the airdrome. (Not for warmth, but for morale support. Flying wasn't easy for a claustrophobic teen when his fear was only exercised one or two days out of the entire year and since the local eatery sacked PB&J sandwiches after new health precincts…) Gabe would most likely be at variance with TSA for some misinterpreted item in his carry-on, and Dean would be—

_Wait,_ where did that thought come from? Dean would be where he is in spite anyway. End of story.

Regardless, he couldn't believe the luck he had on the last day of the convention. He met everyone from Iron Man's doppelgänger to War Machine in the flesh (whose real name he hadn't known until being properly introduced; it was Terrance Howard). He met most of the pubescent cast of the newest _X-Men _film_, _Haley Atwell from _Agent Carter_ (that name he knew because Charlie has a hard-on for her the size of Mordor), and even the legendary Stan Lee. They talked for an impressive time, though Castiel couldn't tell you anything said on both parties. Breathing in the same presence as the man who practically built the fairgrounds single-handedly was a little overwhelming to say the least. He felt like he should have been paying a separate fee every time he wasted oxygen mumbling something far less resourceful.

_Okay, _so maybe he liked Marvel. Just those damn _Fantastic Four _movies needed to be salted and burned,_ Christ_…

What? It's a reference from _Ghostfacers_, which he may or may not have caught the tail-end of a couple nights ago. There was nothing else on and he sure as hell wasn't going to settle for some uptight conservative weatherman that couldn't get up more than his 401K.

"Where's your boyfriend, Matthew?" stirred Gabe, slinging an indolent arm around his shoulders and tossing him his famous shit-eating grin.

Cas shrugged him away. He obviously found the refreshments table. "His name's Matt. And he's not my boyfriend."

"Oh yeah, that's right, you're still hung up on Mr. Hung… you know the guy who nearly got our asses—?"

"Oh my God, Gabe, I think Uruguay knows the definition of hung."

Cole turned to the two of them. "Wait, did you say Matt, as in Matt Ryan?"

_Even the intern knows who Matt freaking Ryan is, Gabe. _"Uh—y-yeah, why?" he stammered.

"Mr. Ryan's my boss," he said, "I can hook you up with him, if you want."

Cas saw his life flash before him in technicolor hues. Then it dawned on him: he was going to die without a eulogy. He would be remembered eulogy-less. That's like joining the basketball team to be a benchwarmer—or worse, the water boy. He scrambled for an introduction… _Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to celebrate the queer and painfully lackluster life of Castiel Novak… _that was a good start. He'll try to remember that when he was drowning in a sea of his own foam-like salivate.

The detainee guided them through a series of rooms each with respective platinum nameplates, like those corporate offices reserved for the white collar shareholders that occupy roughly one percent of the entire population. Ambling through a hampered hallway, Cas understood better now about the previously mentioned 'dick' comment. He couldn't believe how many plastics were, well, plastic_. _Pushing, screaming, _biting—_most of what he saw was like something out of _Jerry Springer_. And this was a professional establishment… even if some members of the elite society were partial to spandex shorts and body paint.

He was about to round a corner when strange sounds arose from the room he was passing. He knew it wasn't any of his business, but what if he was the first to know that Captain America was casting a patriotic dispersion into Iron Man? (Man, wouldn't that be years of dogged shipping paid off?) Curiously, he stopped and stole a fleeting glance into one of the few pronged doors with a shrewd smile. What he found, however, was not the live-action fan fiction-driven foreplay he had hoped for. His smile dissipated into a fine line as he saw Dean Winchester getting a little something from who was presumably one devout fan.

Unfortunately for Mr. Hung, he had one less mouth up for grabs.


	5. Save Me San Diego

Chapter 5: Save Me San Diego

**A/N:**** Thank y'all for your unwavering support and kind comments as I push through this final chapter. I hope, as a whole, this story has sufficed all your fangirl (or boy!) needs.**

The departure lounge was eerily quiet, save for the static voice-ins on baggage claims and periodical updates on weather conditions for outgoing flights (update: still humid as hell). Funny enough, there wasn't any absence of light as it came streaming through the gargantuan double-panel windows in a surfeit of paralyzing warmth. Castiel could feel the back of his jumper sticking to the glass he lent heavily on, causing him to shift cumbersomely in his already cramped seat. Admittedly, the only thing this waiting experience bequeathed him was the renewed sense of stillness that fell over his plane cohorts.

So naturally, he sat back, liberating what was going to be his last respiration in the West Coast and just when darkness began to consume his weary state, whispers arose. And not just one or two—everyone who had ears and a working mouth was conspiring to one another in hushed exchanges. Prudently, Cas popped one eye open to find someone stealing a vacant seat next to him. He could determine who it was despite dark clothes that unconsciously embellished his holier-than-though alter ego. Castiel closed his eyes again, very fatigued.

"Leave me alone," he mumbled. His head lolled onto what he hoped and presumed was his brother's shoulder.

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Don't flatter yourself, Blue Eyes. We're on the same flight."

"Well that's riveting information. I'll mull it over while I'm catching some shut-eye, so if you don't mind—"

"Moving? Hmm, see, our forefathers died to make this a free country, which means I'm entitled to park my ass wherever I please without anyone telling me otherwise."

"Well you've certainly exercised that right time again," Cas said, eyelids still shut. "Are you still here?"

"Blue Eyes, you gotta give me more credit—"

"Do you even remember my name?" he pressed, surging forward to meet his unforgiving emerald eyes.

Dean's tongue darted fleetingly across his bottom lip. "That depends, _Cas_," he spat savagely. "Does the world revolve around you?" Next to him was another shrouded figure, shunting him in the ribcage. Cas was too engrossed in the staring competition he was having with the older boy to notice his brother was doing the same to him.

"You're one to talk. But if you must know, _fuck yes it does._" Something inside him snapped and suddenly his words were merely an overture for a very long sermon. "When it's_ my _emotions getting played, when it's _my _ass mooning for a couple of camera whores, when it's _my _hand milking your microscopic—" Apparently, he was preaching a little too high on his soapbox. He caught the astounded and equally discreditable glares of those around him, including Gabe (who may have actually been amused more than anything). "Oh, c'mon, like it really surprises you your Golden Boy is a flaming homosexual?" He turned back to Dean, whose face was singed an embarrassing red. "Until it's _your_ life on the line and I'm the one playing God, then you better get used to my world as we know it."

"_Flight 316 to Denver, boarding all first-class passengers, first-class passengers only…"_

Cas mirrored the half-hearted laugh Dean put on moments ago. "That's your cue, asshole."

Dean hesitated as he kept his head angled to the ground, listening to the sass-induced snickering from his brother's mouth. He uttered two syllables: "Deathstroke."

"What?"

"Deathstroke is a solid anti-hero for DC," he said, "but the _Arrow _series softened him too much."

"Are you kidding?" Cas quipped incredulously. "Part of what makes Deathstroke the ultimate desperado is that he lost his true love to the Arrow—that's what triggered the Mirakuru and made him lethal."

"Fair point, at least he keeps his promises," he conceded. "Another thing, those _Fantastic Four _comics could not be more far-fetched with the whole 'I may be a mutant, but I'm just a human underneath flame-retardant clothes' thing. At least the _Justice League _didn't try to deny the obvious fact that they're superhuman—even if the ringleader's Achilles' heel is a stupid green rock. What ever happened to sticks and stones?"

Cas shook his head, dumbfounded, "Why me?"

"Why not?" he replied, lips inevitably quirking into a small smile. "However, the real question is why _me_?"

Cas schooled his mind to save the internal monologue as he lent in to kiss him, hard. Alone, the embrace was somewhat innocuous—nothing more than the faint brush of lingering lips—but it left the two winded and after seconds, which was granted. "Guess I have a thing for smarmy assholes."

"Hopefully you have the same fondness towards the ones shooting us right now," the star said. Except this time, Cas didn't run. Hell, he didn't even bother budging to align his view with the shutterbugs. He knew he was risking his chances of ever returning to San Diego on account of his newfangled notoriety—or worse, a sentence to a thousand years of Book-binging and purity cleanses—but none of it seemed to matter anymore. He couldn't find the will to care about anything but this moment and it felt _good_.

Cas reluctantly heaved the twenty-something to his feet and guided him away. "Go, before someone way more sophisticated—and _straight_—takes your seat. We'll cross paths at the mile high club."

"Now would be a good time to mention that I'm officially a second-class citizen." Dean smiled, tossing him a wink. "But I'll take you up on that previous compromise, Mr. Constantine."

**-END-**


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